As if to drive the point home, the Spiked Mane flew overhead shrieking, its normally white claws stained with the blood of Peter Peartree. George was sure it was Peter’s blood since the poor young man hung lifeless in the dragon’s spikes. With a shake of its head, the dragon released Peter and the corpse fell to the ground with a sickening thump. The dragon circled once in the air, shrieking again, before it flew off to the north.

“Peter! No!” screamed the young man’s mother. Many people ran off with the old woman to see to the fallen man. George did not. With a cough the old man tuned and walked back towards his house. Panic gripped the people around him. Few noticed the old man slowly walking home.

The ache in his back flared up again as George buckled on his breastplate. That pain in his left knee that had never quite gone away returned with a vengence as he strapped on his shield. But as he drew the sword down from the mantle the pains quieted.

“Well,” George muttered.”I hope I got one more in me.”